Let's pretend we are contemporary art

I'm Princess Diana rendered in hippo dung

I'm a rapey mattress in an embroidered tent.

I am a filthy bedsheet stretched over a coffin.

My name is "Synesthesia - Series III"

HIV+ cum and dirty money has been transformed into filler by La Prairie to be injected into faces at the next Art Basel.

I am Marina Abramović. I am dipped naked and upside-down from the ceiling into a bathtub filled with sweet and sour sauce. The public is encouraged to finger me.

You forgot to mention, I will be singing classic Serbian folksongs, translated into Persian, and the exhibit space is a prefab by Zaha Hadid in collaboration with Shanghai Tang.

I am a white canvas with a small black dot

I'm Michelle Hines, who hoaxed the art world by claiming to create the longest human turd (26 feet) at a suburban Michigan bowling alley.

I am a broken piano hanging from a gallery ceiling.

My name is 'The Infallibility of Common Sense'.

I am the bullshit. I cover *everything*.

Often literally.

I am a little pile of lint picked from Freud's couch in Hampstead and encased in a little perspex box on a little plinth.

I fed the fake Hines turd to madagascar lemurs and their shit was sent to Givaudan in Geneva Switzerland to be incorporated into an oud & bowling-alley-hotdog musky scent, for the gifting suite at the Cannes Film Festival

I am a sock hanging on a radiator, photographed by a Belgian man, tacked to a wall of an edgy bar slash exhibition space in Eastern Paris

My dance piece, *Juliette the Scratcher's 1st Class Meal" will have its world premiere at the abandoned Hudson River Psychiatric Hospital, in collaboration with Bard Summer Stage and PS1. Music by Unlocking the Truth.

I am a series of polaroids documenting an incestuous brother-sister relationship in Bosnia.

I am very graphic.

My arabic-language film "Susan in Sarajevo" was filmed during an art-wound healing workshop in the Al-Madina Souq of Aleppo.

We are delighted to announce our collaboration with Mariko Mori and the Corrections Corporation of America to relook inmate attire.

I am the painting done by an elephant, dog, or whatever other animal "artist".

I like your work, R18.

I am something you will never understand because you are an insipid bore. I was purchased at a price you can never afford, by a group of your superiors for a museum you will never visit.

Go away.

I am a powerful predication of gender as both subject and object in the mediated feminine.

I am a used tampon in a vitrine.

I am an art photographer from Burkina Faso. All my photos are derivative, shit and out of focus, but hey - I'm from Burkina Faso.

I am the prestigious Turner Prize, awarded to a lightbulb that turns on and off.

I am Goldman Sachs and HSBC. We sponsor this meaningless modern art crap to make ourselves appear less evil to pretentious liberals.

I am shit. I sell for millions.

I'm the anti- intellectual cretins that think "but I could do that!" whenever they look at something they did not think to do.

I am a scorpion dying under a cloche in front of everyone.

I'm the contemporary art museum in a mid-sized Midwestern city designed by an "up and coming" local architect (i.e, architecture student at the local university) known for his "edgy" and "controversial" designs. Few visit me, and those that do, don't do so for the "art".

I'm the suburban couple slumming in the "artsy district", buying overpriced shit that ties the drapes in with the couch.

I am the potato chip, painted in black and white delicately balanced on the wrought iron gate of a mausoleum.

I am Ai Weiwei. I am such a publicity whore I am the next celebrity contestant on Dancing With The Stars.

I am one orange lollipop and a fifteen foot high hill of one-hundred toilets from all over the world.

I'm earrings

I'm caftans

I'm a pencil sitting next to a 1974 AT&T aqua princess telephone.

I am a purposely hideous painting. I am the visual equivalent of loud, obnoxious, discordant noise, but certain pretentious twats convince themselves that they enjoy me. What they really enjoy is feeling smugly superior to all those who see my fugly state for what it is.

I am an errant piece from a massive art installation. I and a few other pieces from said same installation have collapsed or become unmoored and in the process have killed passers by.

Out of respect for the mourners, nobody has worn a t-shirt claiming "ART KILS."

I am a giant portrait of Bristol Palin made solely from condom wrappers.

I am a two-hour piano sonata that took a year out of the pianist's life to learn, even though my cat can reproduce the exact same sound by randomly jumping up and down the keys.

Obviously none of the medium used to create R38's example ever made it any where near the subject.

I am Jeff Koons Swiss Bank Account.

I am a glass cabinets containing shelves of cigarette butts.

I am a series of windows in frames, that open to the other side of the gallery space.

I am the "non-binary pansexual genderqueer" artist's amputated cock, nailed to a square of wood and hung on the wall.

I am three basketballs floating in an aquarium.

I am the Stuckists, watching in rage as more and more Royal Academicians are Conceptual.

I am an actual drinking fountain, mistaken to be an art installation.

I am what I am

The sliced cow. The blood heads thing. Those stacked television sets. You know, anything in the Saatchi collection. I mean, it's all bloody buggary bollocks to me. And I must see the figures.

R48, I don't know if it's art, but I like it!

I'm the ninth red, right men's shoe in a row of 13 identical shoes.

I'm one of a trio of cigarette butts, I'm the longest one, in an empty sardine can.

I am the blank white canvas - I sold for $5,000,000.00, my name is "The Emperor's New Clothes."

I'm a compostion made of environmental noise and I last 4:33 minutes.

I am 2 years worth of collected scabs, dead bugs, flea dirt and shaved pubic hair glued to a old Soft Cell album that will be chainsawed and set on fire...

Bump for more art.

I am a sculpture made of upholstery foam.

I am the portrait of Cardinal Richelieu, made from two years of collected toe nail clippings.

I am Oscar Wilde's wallpaper and never went anywhere.

I'm Tilda Swinton, sleeping in a glass box

----

I am a Cary Leibowitz exhibit.

The "artist" responsible for R57 should be beaten.

I am a McDonald's hamburger, covered in a stretched condom and served on a Royal Albert Country Rose china plate.

We're the ghosts of the old masters shaking their heads at how such amateurish drivel with no sense of craftsmanship, perspective or beauty came to be accepted as high art in universities and museums. As a result, most people born since 1978 only know who we are because they named the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles after us. And the one named after the gay guy was and still is the coolest.

R65 How far we've fallen.

I am a fallen tree trunk from California, shipped to Japan and meticulously duplicated in fiberglass, for no apparent reason.

I am displayed at the Art Institute of Chicago.

R66: MARY!

R68 Yes, I suppose you would be quite accurate, there.

R60, I LOVE Tilda Swinton sleeping in a glass box!

Self cannibalism, on the other hand.....

I am the "floor covering" of a grid made of Necco Wafers with a slightly askew grid of Lifesavers. Visitors are expended to walk on me, tracking me all over the museum and outside on their shoes. Their children are encouraged to eat me off the floor. And I am an ironic commentary on the insidious nature of consumerism and the health care industry.

On the wall, there is a separate installation of an LED screen with words passing across. The words represent every 20th word of the USA Today from September 11, 2001 and the display represents a tribute to New York on that fateful day as well as the limitations of our attention span and the transitoriness of life. Below are taped to the wall, photos of girls from Coppertone ads of the 1960s and 1970s, placed facing downward as though jumping from the Twin Towers to represent the pedophilia of grief. I will be much praised in Harper's magazine for my "potent symbolism"

I'm a life size replica of Magda Goebbels dressed as Mary Poppins. I am holding a bottle of arsenic and at my feet are my dead children, dressed like those in the film.

I'm an ironic comment on Walt's political leanings.

I'm the giant cunt in the lesbian flower painting that the artiste insists isn't there.

I am Flim Flam. See my art on the soles of your shoes after you wamk through a room filled with marshmallows and symbolic aborted fortunes

Tom Robinson: Power in the Darkness

Oops

I am the deep but undiagnosed mental illnesses that afflict every performance artist.

Every single fucking one of 'em.

....

Whatever I am, I lack craftsmanship and my message is derivative

I almost failed art school [didnt know that was possible did ya]; thank god for the option to major inPerformance Art!

I am a pube on Tracey Emin's period-stained bedsheet.

My career is funded by Daddy's money.

I don't find any of you very amusing.

More please!